


Dark Road

by siriusblue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Future, Gen, Infidelity, Loss, M/M, Missing Persons, Mycroft IS the British Government, Points of View, World War III
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 12:35:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12211422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriusblue/pseuds/siriusblue
Summary: In the year 2037 World War Three is in its final throes. Greg Lestrade waits for news of his beloved, caught up in the conflict. When diplomacy fails, you send in the British Government. Told through the eyes of others and in a collection of love letters.





	1. Chapter One

DARK ROAD

 

Rating: Mature for language and *BBC Announcers Voice* scenes of a sexual nature.

 

Summary: In the year 2037, World War Three is in its final throes. The entire world population has been decimated by radiation sickness, designer viruses, disease and simple starvation. In England, the man hand-picked to police the British borders waits for news of his beloved who was caught up in the conflict when it started. When diplomacy fails, you send in the British Government. Told through the eyes of others and in a collection of love letters.

 

For all the lovely members of the DOC, for @kalina-lupus-ionescu for the fantastic plot bunny and for egmon73…I’m so sorry…

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

John Watson lifted the last of the cardboard boxes that had been accumulating in the attic of the now-abandoned house and cursed volubly when the bottom dropped out of it, scattering detritus all over the floor.

 

As John stooped to pick some of the mess up, swearing through the twinges coming from his back and thighs, a handsome leather-bound notebook caught his eye. He picked it up and opened it, recognising Greg Lestrade’s eccentric handwriting immediately. This was no standard-issue police notebook and John was immediately intrigued. He perched himself on the window sill, put on his reading glasses and started to read from the beginning.

 

_May 2037_

_My dearest love,_

_It feels funny writing this. I mean, when was the last time either of us picked up a pen and put our thoughts to paper?_

_What choice do I have? What was modern tech is useless now that the internet has been shredded and we’re lucky if we get more than two hours of continuous electricity a day, and that’s only in the compounds reserved for the military and what is left of the Government after that direct missile strike on Westminster._

_I can’t help but feel a bit resentful. Where you and I should have been enjoying our retirement in that seaside cottage we promised ourselves, far away from London and the pressures of modern life where I could teach you how to fish, you are…well…no, I’m not even going to think it, and I have been put back in harness. I can actually picture you rolling your eyes when you read this._

_I’m not catching villains any more, I’ve been tasked with policing Britain’s borders. Through self-preservation we had to seal the borders but we still get refugees coming all the time. Poor desperate souls trying to escape the pestilential wasteland that most of Europe is now. The camps are full to overflowing, and those are the ones that we don’t send back. You don’t need to tell me how much I loathe playing judge, jury and executioner because I’m basically handing them a death sentence, and the only way I sleep at night is through remembering that we only have so many resources to go around and letting everyone in Britain starve would help no one._

_I’ve been relocated to the only open port, you’ll be pleased to know that John and Sherlock are here with me. John works in one of the clinics trying to treat radiation sickness and the last remnants of that fucking mutated bird flu that made Ebola look like a mild head cold. And that’s before he starts on the diseases caused by extreme poverty and contaminated food and water._

_Sherlock works with me now. At the camps, we try to find skilled people who can help rebuild what was torn apart; scientists, doctors, engineers, builders. Your brother ensures that they can do what they say and he’s never been wrong yet._

_Rosie has been accepted for Edinburgh to read medicine. She says she’s going to specialise in trauma medicine because she has seen so much of it and how it impacts on people’s lives. Medical schools, or what’s left of them are fast-tracking the brightest and best and she is one of them_

_She’s young and fierce and determined. You would be so proud of her._

_My shift starts soon, darling, so I’m going to close now. I really hope that one day soon I can tell you all this stuff in person, but it’s been six months with no news and I know that I am probably fooling myself. But it won’t stop me writing._

_All my love_

_G._

“Dad?”

 

Startled, John closed the notebook and slipped it into his coat pocket.

 

“Sorry, love. I was miles away.”

 

Rosie Watson grinned at her father.

 

“Papa’s just rung to say dinner’s almost ready and you can finish this tomorrow.”

 

“Best get home then,” said John with a smile, following his daughter out into the warm spring sunshine.

 

“What were you reading?” asked Rosie curiously.

 

“I’m not sure yet,” replied John cryptically. “But if you need to know, you’ll know. You know?”

 

“Oh, Dad!” exclaimed Rosie, slapping her father on his arm.

 

When Sherlock and Rosie were tucked up in their respective beds later that night, John took Greg’s notebook from his coat pocket and settled down in front of the fire to read more.

 

_June 2037_

_My dearest love,_

_Seven months now since we had any real news that wasn’t salted with lies, half-truths and wishful thinking. Desperate people will tell you anything if they think it will gain them an advantage._

_The consensus is that pretty much everywhere is blighted with fallout, the rule of the knife prevails, and it could be years before the prisoner of war camps get cleared out. It seems we won, but if ever there was a pyrrhic victory, this is it. There are food riots in New York, flooding in Switzerland and total anarchy in France. But you probably know better than me, you were in Brussels when…no…I don’t want to think about it._

_As time drags on I can’t kid myself any longer, I can’t keep pretending that you’re not…_

_I’ll still keep writing this, it helps keep my memories of you and the wonderful life we had together alive._

_Remember the day I told you I wanted a dog? I reckoned he or she would be the perfect retirement companion. Long morning walks along the beach, a different kind of companionship and unconditional love. I remember the lecture about sublimation, dog hair in inappropriate places, vet bills and separation anxiety. Then I made you go with me to Battersea and you changed your tune. You wanted to adopt every one of them, I hadn’t seen you so moved in a very long time. The Iceman really thawed that day. George was going to be ours when you went to Brussels and the world as I knew it ended._

_I want the day to come when you sit down next to me and read this. I want you to tease me about being sentimental in that seductive tone of yours that I’m sure only I have ever heard and we can laugh about it before I kiss you all over your face and haul you off to bed._

_I’d love to think that will happen one day, but until then,_

_My love always_

_G._

John sighed and closed the book again. Reading any more would be too painful tonight.

 

He hid the notebook in the bookcase and went upstairs. He stripped off his clothes and folded them neatly on the chair, climbing into bed and wrapping his arms around Sherlock.

 

John needed the comfort of a warm, breathing body that night and he held his husband close as he drifted off to sleep, counting his many blessings.

 

 

To Be Continued.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More contents of Greg's notebook are revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're into mature themes, folks. Fair warning.

CHAPTER TWO

 

A/N: Warnings, etc in Chapter One.

 

For Egmon73 who wanted the beard…

 

It was a few days later that John had time to pick up Greg’s notebook again. When he read a random line of the new page he knew it would be no easy read and contemplated skipping ahead or putting it away altogether.

 

Sherlock came into the room and sat on his chair with his usual boneless grace.

 

“What’s that?” he asked, indicating the notebook that John hadn’t been quick enough to hide from him.

 

“It’s Greg’s,” replied John. “He’s written a bunch of letters in here to Mycroft.”

 

“Oh.” A shadow passed over Sherlock’s usually inscrutable face. “Greg never really struck me as the type to open his heart on paper.”

 

John smiled, love for the man lounging across from him shining in his dark blue eyes.

 

“They’re beautiful,” said John. “Listen.”

 

He cleared his throat and started to read aloud.

 

_July 2037_

_My dearest love._

_It’s warm today and I’m sitting beside the window looking at a spectacular sunset. I’ve got an enormous glass of whatever passes for wine in my hand. It’s the weather. England is no place for growing grapes really and it leads to a pretty poor vintage. I can just see you wrinkle your nose as you take a sip, distaste obvious in your face, pining for the Cabernet Sauvignons and Merlots of yore._

_But I digress. I could only get through today half sozzled and you know why that is._

_Today is our wedding anniversary and it’s the first one where I haven’t woken up with you in my arms. You are so unguardedly tender when you’re half awake, warming your lips on mine, curling yourself around me as our blood heats up, but you weren’t here for me to kiss this morning and it’s absolutely killing me, Mycroft._

_I can’t bear not knowing if you’re dead or alive and I’m starting to lose hope. I leap on every scrap of news that comes into the compound from Europe, even if it’s third or fourth-hand and the source is shady as fuck just on the off-chance that they will have news of you._

_I’m looking for something, anything that might stop me slowly dying inside and wondering if it might not be a good thing if I joined you. I always said I could never live without you and as the months go by without even a hint, I realise I don’t want to._

_I’ve got our wedding album open on my knee and I’m slowly leafing through the pictures. You looked so bloody handsome that day, I thought my heart would burst with pride at the fact that you were now my husband, the man I loved more than anything in the world. So many happy memories in this album, frozen in time._

_I don’t need a photograph to remember you by. Your face, like your voice and your touch is tucked away in my heart, and I can summon it any time. I don’t want the memory of you to get faded like an old Polaroid_

_. Come back to me, darling. I miss you so much._

“John, stop!” There was urgency in Sherlock’s voice.

 

“What?” asked John, genuinely puzzled.

 

“No more, love. I can’t bear it. I thought you said they were beautiful!”

 

“They are,” said John. “They’re love letters which Greg didn’t think would ever be read. I suppose it was his way of dealing with Mycroft going missing.”

 

Sherlock looked scornful as he always did when sentiment or emotion were the topics of discussion.

 

“Whatever they are, I don’t want to hear any more!”

 

“I do,” Rosie was framed in the doorway. Neither of the men had heard her come in. “Is that what they are, Dad? Love letters from Uncle Greg?”

 

John ran a distracted hand through his hair.

 

“Yes, sweetheart. It was an anxious time, I think it was your Uncle Greg’s way of coping. You didn’t really know how bad it was, being up in Edinburgh, and we kept the worst of it from you when you were home.”

 

Rosie looked scornful and John was expecting a tirade along the lines of I’m-not-a-child-stop-protecting-me, but it never came. Instead she walked over and hugged him.

 

“I’m not stupid, Dad.” She said, her breath warm against John’s cheek. “Uncle Mycroft was missing, presumed dead. I still don’t know yet how Uncle Greg coped with that. If anything happened to either of you...” she shivered, even though the room was warm.

 

“Dominic,” said Sherlock dismissively.

 

“Sherlock! We swore we’d never mention that name in this house again!” replied John angrily.

 

“Better if Rosie knows the full story, don’t you think?”

 

John thrust the notebook into Rosie’s hands and pulled Sherlock to his feet.

 

“Read the rest, Rosie love. Whatever you might hear, Greg and Mycroft loved each other. As for you,” he said to Sherlock, “Let her make up her own mind.”

 

“Fine,” said Sherlock huffily. “You can help me with the dinner.”

 

Rosie watched as her parents, still bickering, went into the kitchen.

 

She opened the notebook and found where her Dad had left off.

 

_I miss you, my darling. It bites into me with rusty teeth every waking hour. I miss the everyday business of living with you. And I miss the sex. The exquisite noises you make when I’m buried deep inside you or when you get that stormy look in your eye and I’m half-hard when I realise I’m going to be fucked against the nearest wall. Your beautiful voice begging me to fuck you harder and the sounds you make when you come…I don’t mind admitting that’s what I think about when I’m alone at night and my hand steals below the covers to touch myself._

_Potent memories, but I remember our honeymoon best. Two weeks in Paradise on our own private island. Soft white sand, and turquoise blue sea, a beautiful villa where we were waited on by the most discreet people in the world, rubbing factor 50 into your freckled skin so you didn’t burn and aloe vera for when you did. We lived in shorts, and that was only when there were people around to see. Mostly we made love; in the water, on the beach and under the stars, your skin glowing in the moonlight. You grew a beard, fiery red and soft which made you even more handsome, I loved how it used to tickle my cheek when we kissed, and how it rasped against my overheated skin when you pushed me into the hammock and went down on me, your face buried in my groin till I couldn’t think, just moaning your name as you put your talented mouth to the best use._

_I mourned the loss of the beard when you shaved it off when it was time for us to go home, you promised you’d grow another one, but you never got the chance._

_I suppose if you had the time to grow a  beard now, it’d be whiter than snow. And that thought makes me smile. You always could do that, even at your most pompous and arrogant._

_Enough of dodging the traffic in Memory Lane for one night, my love. I’m clinging to the thought that you are sleeping under the same stars as me tonight._

_My love always_

_G._

Rosie realised she was blushing and closed the notebook. Her Uncle Greg had always worn his heart on his sleeve, rubbish at poker because he couldn’t help grinning whenever he got a good hand, but she had never realised just how passionate he was about Uncle Mycroft.

 

Thinking to finish it later, she pocketed the book and went to see if her Dad and her Papa had finished arguing and produced something for dinner.

 

 

TBC


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More extracts from Greg's notebook, and Rosie discovers her uncle has feet of clay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, major thanks to everyone who's liked and commented on this story. Please, don't ever stop.

CHAPTER THREE

 

A/N warnings, etc in Chapter One.

 

During breakfast the next day, Rosie handed John the notebook.

 

“You know, there’s some pretty spicy stuff in here, Dad.”

 

John had the grace to blush but when he looked up he saw she was teasing.

 

“I forgot about that. Still, you’re a married woman now, I assume sex isn’t a great mystery to you anymore.”

 

“I didn’t need to get married to find that out,” muttered Rosie under her breath.

 

“Oi! I heard that! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

 

They both grinned conspiratorially.

 

“Anyway, “said John, changing the subject. “Did you read the rest?”

 

Rosie sighed.

 

“Yes, I did. It’s not just love letters, it’s a confessional. If Uncle Greg loved Uncle Mycroft so much, if he wasn’t sure… why on earth would he do what he did?”

 

“We were at war, love. I’ve seen two of the bloody things and it affects people. Makes them behave differently. Sometimes you grab what’s there because you don’t know if there’s even going to be a tomorrow. Remember when Jonathan broke up with you because you wouldn’t emigrate to Australia with him?”

 

“It wasn’t the only reason, but thanks for reminding me, Dad,” replied Rosie sourly.

 

“You were so unhappy. It took your best friend to make you smile again. Hiro, your friend since your first anatomy lesson at Edinburgh. I know I’m getting old but I’m pretty sure I remember dancing at your wedding not so long ago, Dr Tanaka.”

 

“Just like you and Papa. “

 

“Yes, “smiled John. “We Watsons have a habit of falling in love with our best friends. Your Uncle Greg reached out to someone but it made him feel so guilty, he wrote it down to try and absolve himself. I wasn’t going to judge him. Your Papa on the other hand…”

 

“I’m guessing, after last night, it’s still a touchy subject. Even after all this time?”

 

“Your Papa is a stubborn sod and can hold a grudge longer than anyone I’ve ever known,” sighed John. “Where is he, by the way?”

 

“Back at the house,” replied Rosie, sipping at her tea and grimacing because it was now cold. “He says he wants it finished by tomorrow so you and he can drive up to Edinburgh with me. I’ve already messaged Hiro, he says he can’t wait.”

 

“Can’t wait to have you back, you mean,” laughed John. “Well, Sherlock’s going to have to manage on his own, I’m due at the clinic in half an hour. See you tonight, love.”

 

“Bye, Dad.”

 

Rosie picked up Greg’s notebook again as her father left for his shift at the clinic and turned to the page she and John had been discussing. Now she had some context, it might read differently.

 

_April 2038_

_My dearest love._

_It’s been almost a year now and I’m starting to accept the fact that I’ll never see you again. I’m still going to keep writing to you, though. You know that I’m a hopeless romantic and I’ve always been a sucker for happy endings. If that happens, I’ll be the happiest man in the world. No, sweetheart, I’m not delusional, just optimistic._

_Life goes on. I know you wouldn’t want me to end my days prematurely or in sackcloth and ashes, so I take it one day at a time. My heart still hurts when I think of the time we should have had together and I still rage at the world that stopped it from happening. But there are people who still need me, so I drag my weary self out of bed every morning and do what I have to do. What else is there?_

_We’ve managed to restore a number of broadcasting stations, so our news comes through pretty regularly now. There’s not much of it good, but the world seems intent on rebuilding itself and learning from the mistakes of the past. Prisoner of war camps are being cleared but, thank fuck, there were no concentration camps this time. What happened was foul and evil, but nothing could have been as evil as that._

_The strictest of martial laws have been lifted and our border security has been relaxed ever so slightly. There’s even talk of having a great celebration of victory in what’s left of London. Yes, darling, I know you can see the irony in that last sentence._

_I’ve been assigned a deputy to help me, now that most of the hard work’s been done and I’m already a legend on a lot of bog walls throughout the refugee camps. Administration at its finest. He’s almost as good as Sally Donovan. Remember Sally? She was a great copper._

_His name is Dominic Clay. He’s about twenty years younger than me, quiet, hard-working with no personal life whatsoever that anyone’s been able to find out about. He’s very handsome, dark hair and eyes, broad shoulders and a lovely smile. I know he fought in the war and seems to have escaped unscathed, but you never really know the scars that people hide._

_I’ve never had so many male and female visitors to my office since he took up his post and it’s not me they’re coming to gawk at, trust me. There’s something, though. I catch him looking at me when he thinks I can’t see, and he’s got a shy smile that he never shows to anyone else._

_He’d been there about a month when we had our first proper conversation, out of the office and not about work._

_He invited me for a drink and we talked. I found out a lot about him that night and everything was fine, there might even have been a bit of flirtation in the air until he asked me about you._

_I gave him the official line about you being missing in action and the less official line about how much I missed you. It was then that it happened._

_He took my hand in his, the pad of his thumb rubbing over my wedding ring._

_“Greg, I don’t pretend to understand what you’re going through, but I can see how lonely you are. I’m lonely too. Maybe we could comfort each other. No strings.”_

_I’m not going to deny that I was sorely tempted. I squeezed his hand and smiled at him._

_“It’s a lovely offer, Dominic, but I’m still married. “_

_He merely smiled. “You know where I am if you change your mind.”_

_He finished his drink and left and I sat there, my mind working furiously._

_I had another beer then left, heading for my quarters and, hopefully, sleep._

_I swear I never planned it. Not consciously, anyway. The walk took longer than usual and the paint on the door was the wrong colour._

_Instead of using my key, I knocked at the door. Dominic answered it, wearing a pair of military issue pyjamas._

_“Is your offer still open?” I asked._

_He opened his arms in reply and, God help me, I walked right into them._

_I cheated on you, my love. It was something I swore I would never do. I’m trying to salve my conscience by reminding myself that you can’t actually be unfaithful to someone who’s dead and that the sex was nothing compared to what you and I had, but it doesn’t help._

_And now I’ve got that to live with as well._

_I know you’ll never read this, darling, but I loved you and I love you still. And I’m sorry._

_My love always_

_G._

“Oh, Uncle Greg, how could you?” whispered Rosie. Reading it again had only made the betrayal worse.

 

 

TBC


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened after the last of the notebook is read? Finally complete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who has liked and commented on this. It's what keeps us going. Cheers.

CHAPTER FOUR

 

A/N Warnings, etc in Chapter One.

 

Rosie kept reading. She had a vague awareness of things she should be doing, but this tale had her gripped, seeing it as she was from a fresh perspective. She sat down with a fresh cup of tea and picked up the notebook again.

 

_My dearest love_

_I shouldn’t be writing this. The last thing I should be doing is confessing to my husband about my time with another man but you and I never had any secrets from each other and they say confession is good for the soul, whatever one of them is._

_Dominic and I were discreet, but you know how rumours and speculation spreads in any workplace. The small matter of me being his superior and me not wanting anyone to know made us both warier that we would normally have been._

_We had a month. One glorious month together where he taught me how to smile again and how life was meant for living. He made me feel wanted and appreciated and that is a rare commodity these days._

_Then one evening we were in my quarters sipping beer and listening to the radio, discussing where we would have dinner next week now that some of the restaurants had reopened when the front door slammed open and Sherlock stormed in._

_“You could have knocked,” I told him, trying to keep a rein on my temper._

_He glowered at me then turned his attention to Dominic._

_“What are you doing here?” he asked._

_“I could ask you the same question,” retorted Dominic. Sherlock ignored him. He was irrelevant and that made me even more angry._

_“Sorry to interrupt your date, Greg” Sherlock sneered, “But he needs to leave.”_

“He _isn’t going anywhere,” I replied._

_“Very well. What do you think you’re playing at? I couldn’t believe my ears when I heard you were seeing someone, but I should have deduced it from the way your demeanour has changed these past few weeks. And he’s, what, twenty years younger than you? How could you? You’re married to Mycroft!”_

_“Mycroft’s dead, Sherlock.”_

_I know this is going to sound really stupid, my love, but it was only then that I realised properly that Sherlock was your brother. Your blood, the man who’s known you longer than anyone else._

_I always was a thick Yarder but it never occurred to me, so wrapped up as I had been in my own grief and self-pity, that Sherlock had been suffering too. He had lost his big brother who, despite all the arguing and point-scoring, he had loved and looked up to._

_If I could have taken them back, I would, but the words were out of my mouth and Sherlock audibly gasped as if I had physically struck him._

_He, I know now, had wanted to keep believing as well._

_He turned on his heel and ran out of the door._

_“Go after him, Greg,” urged Dominic._

_“No,” I said firmly. “I’ve done enough damage for one night. I’m sorry, Dominic. You’d better go too. I’ll see you tomorrow.”_

_His eyes were troubled as he kissed me goodnight and I sank into my chair with my head in my hands._

_I didn’t sleep that night, it was as if Sherlock had slapped me out of a waking dream, torn down the painted scenery I had imagined to be real and showed me the brick walls of the prison I was still in, but I welcomed this new revelation, this fresh pain._

_My supervisor seemed surprised at my request, but finally saw sense and acceded. It was only a matter of time anyway before I would be leaving, it wasn’t too much for me to ask._

_I took Dominic to one side when I made it to work._

_“I’ve arranged for your transfer back to London,” I told him abruptly. “You’re needed there more than here. It’s a big promotion, you deserve it.”_

_He opened his mouth to argue, but I wasn’t finished._

_“I’m sorry, Dominic. It’ll be easier this way. I’m terribly fond of you and, if we keep seeing each other, it’s only going to get harder for me to tell you that that’s all I’ll ever be. I’m still in love with Mycroft and I always will be. You deserve someone younger, someone who can love you back. So, I’m letting you go.”_

_I didn’t give him the chance to speak and walked away before he could see the tears trickling down my face._

_I never saw him again._

_After all that, my darling, I’m still in love with you. I’m still broken and always will be as the best part of me died with you, sweetheart, but I owe it to you to carry on._

_My love always_

Rosie wiped her eyes, put down the notebook and went upstairs to pack.

 

The next morning, John and Sherlock loaded the van they had hired with what had been taken from the empty house.

 

“Should we take this with us? “asked Rosie, brandishing the notebook.

 

“Christ, no.” Sherlock took it from her, shredded the pages and placed them in the empty hearth in the living room. He lit a match and they both watched as the paper crumbled to ash.

 

“No need to open old wounds, darling,” said Sherlock. “Let’s go, we’ve got a long drive ahead of us and your Dad drives like a pensioner.”

 

“I am a pensioner, “retorted John with a grin. “Right, “he said as Sherlock secured their house. “All aboard the Edinburgh bus. One stop only before the metropolis.”

 

It was a very long drive and Rosie, when not driving, dozed. A part of her regretted the loss of the notebook but she smiled to herself as she remembered the last, very brief entry.

 

_My dearest love_

_This is my last day at work, I’ve finally been put out to pasture. I can’t say I’m sorry, it’s getting harder and harder to drag myself out of bed in the mornings. I’m going home, back to London and the house that was ours. I shudder to think what state it’s in, but Rosie is on holiday from Uni and she’s promised to help. Sherlock is finally talking to me again, we made our peace over a bottle of smuggled scotch. Trust me, the hangover was worth it._

_My office looks very bare now…John has just burst in, he’s completely out of breath which can mean one of two things but then he’s gasping your name and I’m breathless too. He’s incapable of more speech, gesturing weakly to the hospital wing and I throw down my pen…_

The notebook had finished there. Rosie knew the rest of the story, she had been there for most of it.

 

The road to the Crow’s Nest was bumpy as befitted a seaside cottage in the middle of nowhere and Sherlock grumbled about how it was high time it was fixed.

 

They were obviously expected, a golden bullet flew out of the cottage gate, barking furiously and bestowing indiscriminate licks to everyone.

 

“Hi, George,” smiled Rosie, bending down and scratching the yellow Labrador behind the ears as he writhed ecstatically.

 

“Thought you lot had got lost,” said a gruff voice.

 

“Blame Dad, he drives like a pensioner,” laughed Rosie, hugging her Uncle Greg tightly. “Where’s Uncle Mycroft?”

 

Greg Lestrade smiled. “In the kitchen, where else? He’s made a batch of those scones you like so much. He’s waiting for you.”

 

Rosie walked into the kitchen from which the most delicious smells were wafting. Her Uncle Mycroft was standing at the stove, a light dusting of flour on his cheek. He was stooped and completely grey, his face etched with pain lines, but he smiled when he saw her and held out his arms.

 

“Darling Rosamund, how are you?”

 

“I’m great, how are you?”

 

It wasn’t a polite question. Mycroft had suffered the tortures of the damned in the year he had spent in the prisoner of war camp in Europe and it had irrevocably damaged his health.

 

As soon as he could, Greg had spirited the British Government away to the wilds of Northumberland so he could rest and heal and they fell in love all over again.

 

Whether Greg had told Mycroft what had happened in the year Mycroft was gone was their business, but no one who saw them could doubt how strong their love for each other was.

 

When she visited, she noticed how tactile her uncle Greg had become with Uncle Mycroft. It was as if Greg were frightened his husband might disappear in a puff of smoke should he let go.

 

“This is one of my better days, the arthritis in my hips is less painful if I keep moving. Can’t do anything about the spine, but at least I can still hobble around. Sit, my darling and tell me all your news.”

 

It wasn’t long before John, Sherlock and Greg joined them at the kitchen table where they ate, drank and talked till the sun dipped below the horizon.

 

Rosie was exhausted. She decided to wait until tomorrow before telling everyone her big news about the baby. Hiro was ecstatic, she hoped her parents would be too. For now, she just enjoyed the sight of her family together, happy and content in a world finally at peace.

 

 

 

 

 

_The End_


End file.
